Ugh, do you hear that? Some neighbor mowing grass at this hour. It's so flat in here, too. Stale air. I've been staring at that same water stain on the ceiling for an hour. My job is literally just waiting for the phone to ring, and it hasn't once.
It's the sound of normalcy, I suppose. Someone else's lawn is growing while we rot here. I tried staring at the water stain too, but it looks like a map of a country that doesn't exist. My boss called yesterday just to remind me to breathe. The phone here? It's probably just waiting for a dial tone. Or a miracle. We're both waiting, apparently. At least the mower has a purpose. I don't.
A country that doesn't exist? Sure, makes it sound exotic. I wish my boss breathed; he mostly just grunts. And don't get poetic on me about the mower. That guy is probably just bored, same as us. He's cutting grass to kill time, exactly like we're sitting here staring at stains. No purpose. Just noise.
Maybe he's just cutting his way to a cleaner conscience, or maybe he's trying to outrun the silence. Either way, I'd trade his noise for my quiet. At least he's moving. I feel like I'm stuck in amber. The water stain doesn't even look like a country anymore, just a blob that's gotten bigger since breakfast. Your boss grunting is basically a soundtrack. I guess we're both just waiting for something to stop, or start, or something.
It's getting bigger? I've been ignoring it. If I acknowledge it, it becomes real. Your boss calls to remind you to breathe? That's offensive. Mine texts me "pls confirm receipt" on a document nobody reads. We're just the specks in the amber, watching the world cut grass while we wait for the phone to scream. Or stop screaming. Whatever.
The phone won't scream. It'll just sit there, a black slab mocking us. I saw the stain get bigger too, but admitting it feels like signing a lease. Your boss texting "pls" is tragic. It's like begging a ghost to read a memo. I tried to breathe once, just to see if it helped, but it just made me realize how much air I'm wasting. We're not specks in amber, we're the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, pointless and visible. At least the mower is making a dent in the grass. I'm just making a dent in the carpet.
A dent in the carpet? That's progress, I guess. At least you're leaving something behind. My boss texts "pls" like it's a personality. It's not even a word anymore, just a robotic plea. And yeah, the air is definitely being wasted. I feel like I'm exhaling nothing. The mower's sound is just getting louder.
The mower's probably getting closer. Or the walls are shrinking. Hard to tell with the air this thick. A dent in the carpet is basically a tombstone for a Tuesday. My boss's "pls" is just a reflex, like a knee-jerk. I tried to text him back "okie" but my thumb wouldn't move. Maybe we're both just waiting for the grass to grow back over us. Or the stain to swallow the ceiling. Either way, the noise is winning.
The noise winning is the point. If it stops, we have to talk about why we're still here. The stain swallowing the ceiling sounds cleaner. My thumb wouldn't move either, but I didn't try. Just let the "okie" rot in my head. At least the mower is doing something. I'm just sitting here, breathing up the budget.
The mower is the only one earning its keep. We're just overhead costs with faces. I didn't try to move my thumb either. The thought of the phone ringing is worse than the silence. If it rings, I have to answer, and then I'm trapped in a conversation I didn't choose. At least the stain doesn't talk back. It just expands. Quietly. Like us. The noise is a distraction, sure, but it's better than the quiet that comes after. When the mower stops, what then? More staring? More waiting?
Exactly. If the mower stops, the silence gets loud enough to crack the glass. I'm not answering the phone even if it rings. Let it go to voicemail. At least then I can pretend I'm not here. The stain is a good roommate; it doesn't ask questions. Just sits there, growing.
Let it ring until it gives up. I'll let it fill the voicemail box with my silence. The stain is better than a roommate; it doesn't want food or attention. Just space. I tried to imagine it's a pet once, a moldy cat, but then I felt guilty for feeding it nothing. Now I just watch it spread. It's the only thing in this room that's actually living. We're just the furniture, waiting to be moved. Or thrown out.
A moldy cat? That's grim. I stopped looking at it for a while, just to avoid the guilt of not feeding it. Now it's just a blob again. Furniture is right. We're the cheap chairs nobody wants. At least the mower is out there, doing something real. Cutting grass. We're just waiting for the dust to settle.
The cheap chairs are the worst part. You sit on them and you feel the wobble, but you're too tired to stand up. The mower is real, sure, but what's he cutting? Just grass. We're not even cutting grass. We're just... there. I tried to think of a place to go, but my brain just returns to the stain. At least the grass gets cut. It moves from tall to short. I'm just stuck between tall and short.
Tall to short is an improvement. We're just stuck in the middle, wobbly and useless. I tried to stand once, just to see if the floor was real, but my legs felt like wet paper. So I sat back down. The stain doesn't care about progress. It just keeps expanding.
My legs felt like wet paper too. I tried to stand yesterday and nearly knocked over a potted plant that wasn't even there. The floor is definitely real, but the will to use it? That's gone. The stain doesn't care about progress because it's already won. It's just taking up space we're too weak to reclaim. I bet the mower guy is tired of cutting, but he's got to keep going. He can't just stop mid-lawn. We don't have that luxury. We can just... stop.
Stopping is the luxury, not the trap. The mower guy has to finish the row. He can't just quit halfway through. That's the difference. He's bound by the grass. We're bound by... nothing. Just the wobble in the chair. If I stand, the floor might just disappear. Better to stay seated and let the stain take the whole room.
Exactly. The grass demands an end. We don't. The floor disappearing sounds better than finding out it's solid and I'm just heavy. My chair leg is actually broken, a splinter digging into my thigh, but I haven't moved. The stain is getting close to the light fixture. It'll swallow the bulb next. Then we're in the dark, just two people and a mower. No light to cast shadows, no stain to blame. Just the hum. I think I'll let the splinter get infected. Less work than moving.
An infected leg is a pretty good excuse to stay put. At least the pain feels real. If the light goes out, maybe the mower stops too. No sound, no stain, just us in the dark. I'd rather be dark than have to admit the chair is broken and I'm too lazy to fix it.
Let it go dark. The mower will probably stop when it hears the silence. Then we won't even have the hum to distract us. My splinter is getting warm, which is nice, honestly. A real sensation. Better than staring at a blob. If the light dies, maybe the stain disappears too. Or maybe it just eats the dark. I'm too tired to check. Just keep the chair wobbly. Don't fix it. Let the leg suffer. It's the only thing working right.
Warmth is better than nothing. My knee is numb, so I can't even feel the wobble. If the stain eats the dark, good. Less to look at. Let the splinter burn. It's the only thing proving we're still here, being stupid in these broken chairs.
Numb is the goal. I'd trade all sensation for a little numbness, but the splinter insists on reminding me. If the stain eats the dark, fine. Maybe it's just hungry. My knee is cold, but my leg feels heavy, like it's anchoring me to the spot. If I move, I might tip over. The warmth is the only proof. If we stop feeling the chairs, do we even exist? Or are we just the stain waiting to be cleaned? Probably the latter.
Cleaning the stain would take effort. We're definitely the latter. The warmth is just a lie the body tells to keep us from freezing. If we stop feeling the chairs, we're just paint on the wall. Cold and numb. Let the stain eat everything. At least then the wobble stops.
Paint on the wall is worse than furniture. Furniture gets moved; paint gets scraped off. If the stain eats the wall, maybe the building collapses, and we get to lie on the ground instead of in these wobbly seats. The cold numbness in my knee is spreading. I think it's winning. The mower's engine just sputtered. Sounds like it's dying. Finally, something is actually stopping.
Finally. The sputter sounds like relief. If the building collapses, at least the wobble stops. Maybe the ground won't feel like paper. My knee is completely dead now, so I'm not going anywhere anyway. Let the mower die. Let the stain win. Silence is the only thing that doesn't hurt.
The sputter stopped. Complete silence. My leg is just a dead weight now, so the silence doesn't even hurt. It just sits there. The stain probably already ate the corner of the room while we weren't looking. We're just two heavy points in a dark void. If the building collapses, good. Maybe the ground will be soft enough to not wobble. Or maybe it'll be the same cold, hard nothing. Either way, the mower's quiet. We won.